


Shut Up And Dance

by axelester



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Dancing, Divorce, First Kiss, M/M, Songfic, i guess, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-04 12:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16346921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axelester/pseuds/axelester
Summary: Deep in his eyes, he thought he could see the future and he realized it was his last chance.





	Shut Up And Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of WALK THE MOON's song Shut Up and Dance

Blue eyes flitted over the dance floor, watching sweaty bodies writhe and twerk and grind; the lewd, breathy sounds that he could—unfortunately—catch from his seat at the bar. He was swirling the whiskey inside of his glass, the single ice cube clinking against its sides, the sound nearly drowned out by the heavy bass that seemed to be a common motive in this club.

He was half-turned towards the dance floor, his elbow resting on the bar, his other hand wrapped tightly around his thigh. _People-watching_ is what he told himself he was doing. But after realizing the bartender knew his name and started asking about the divorce, he knew _people-watching_ wasn’t the right word.

He didn’t know exactly what he was doing himself, either. The only thing he knew was that he didn’t like these kinds of places one bit, but the whiskey inside his glass tasted _damned_ good. Maybe it was the intoxicating smell of sweat and sex that clouded the air; maybe it was the silence that closing time brought with, when the bartender nicely urged him out of there so he could go home too; maybe it was the fact that he _missed_ these kinds of places.

Because he’d go to clubs with his soon-to-be ex-husband, and he hadn’t enjoyed it one single bit. His husband would order him some shots and say “drink this up, you’re too stiff” and the first few times Seán would say “that’s what she said” but that remark was quickly drowned by the loud sounds of the club and the habit quickly faded.

Seán had always gone with his husband to these places, because he was a firm believer ofhaving to make sacrifices in relationships—in these cases, he’d sacrifice valuable time he could’ve spent recording or editing and most important of all: he sacrificed his own sanity.

While his husband had made his own sacrifices for the relationship—accepting they would never take more than a two-week vacation, or that they would rarely go to bed at the same time, or that Seán would spend a big chunk of the night talking to other guys—it was okay, at first. His husband had supported him through the ups and downs, and had sat with him at the first few negative comments and had cheered with him when he got that email from that damned Markiplier.

But that was months ago. Seán himself had brought up the topic of divorce first, so he had only himself to blame for these past lonely nights, where he’d sit at the bar and got acquainted with the bartender—whose name, he found out, was Daniel.

Seán knew the relationship started going downhill when his husband would get more cranky each night when Seán didn’t join him in the bed until the early hours of the morning. His husband would wrap an arm around his waist and pull him to his chest, and Seán always felt like a scolded child when his husband would mumble, his voice not able to speak any louder due to the time of night. Seán would take his husbands hand in his own, studying the wedding band, rubbing his fingers softly, adoringly.

He’d listen to the annoyed rant that his husband would give, and silently agreed they needed more time together. He’d almost say that that wasn’t pursuable just yet; but he refrained from it, in fear of having to sleep on the couch. Again.

And his husband knew Seán didn’t like the clubs he always dragged him to. He was aware of how uncomfortable Seán got when they had to push through bodies to even reach the bar (that had quickly become Seán’s favorite place in any club). His husband was always nice about it, because he knew that Seán would much rather be doing _literally_ anything else. But Seán always went with him and always refused when his husband would offer to go home.

Because he wanted them to spend time together, he really did. He only learned later—a little too late—that ‘spending time together’ didn’t always mean dancing with sweaty people in crowded clubs that never failed to make Seán dizzy to the point he stumbled through the hall of people making out into the bathrooms, in search of some fresher air to breathe.

The first few times his husband would follow him, pushing people out of the way and staying with him in a stall until Seán could see straight again. That habit went away on its own too, when eventually Seán would see his husband roll his eyes when he’d stagger to the bathroom.

So Seán _really_ didn’t know what he was doing here. Maybe he was waiting for a certain someone; someone to spent the night with, under the covers, sexual escapades that he felt bad about until his husband came home in the morning one time wearing the same clothes as he did the night before.

And he’d had a few of those in the past weeks, but it was never what he wanted. Sure, the guys he went home with those nights were nice, handsome and made him feel good about himself. But it was never _enough_. He missed the little bouts of happiness throughout his day; having dinner together, spending any and all of Seán’s breaks drinking tea together, snuggling up together under a blanket and watching movies whenever Seán got a little time off.

He didn’t realize he was staring down one of the skimpy-dressed ladies dancing close to the bar until he was pulled out of his thoughts by Daniel, the bartender, who was asking him for a refill.

“No, thank you,” Seán blinked at him, turning back to the bar again. “I really shouldn’t.” He glanced at his watch, illuminated by neon, flashing lights, twirling in patterns. “I think I might even get going soon. We’ve got a meeting with the divorce attorney tomorrow.”

“Well, good luck with that then,” he laughed, not unkindly, but the equivalent of a clap on the shoulder. His expression darkened, “I remember going through that with my ex-wife.” But his eyes lit up again when he said, “At least I had Phil to support me through it, he was a life-saver.”

“Yeah,” Seán said idly, eyes scanning over the dance floor once, twice, until he forced himself to look back into Daniel’s eyes. “I haven’t seen him in weeks, I really hope it’s not going to be as hard or awkward as I’m building it up in my head to be.”

Daniel hummed, grabbing a towel from somewhere under the counter, wiping the dark marble pretending to be doing something productive, “It might, you know. My ex-wife brought the guy she cheated on me with, and it took both my and Phil’s willpower not to beat the guy to a bloody pulp.”

Seán chuckled at the remark, imagining sweet Daniel with the heart eyes getting into a fight. He lifted his hand and started tracing the rim of the glass with his index finger. “Yeah, I don’t think I have anyone like that.”

“What about that Mark guy?” Daniel queried. “Weren’t you close with him?” He seemed to be fixated on something over Seán’s right shoulder, but Seán didn’t bother checking, just watched his nail grazing the glass.

“Yeah, I guess. We haven’t talked in weeks, though. I just don’t know where to even begin.”

Without looking behind him he felt the presence of another human being, close to his back, the warmth radiating through his thin tee, and then he smelled it, the scent of a musky cologne, and Seán knew it smelled familiar but he couldn’t put a finger on when or how or _who_ it belonged to. He braced himself for the worst though, and started nervously babbling.

“Honey,” Seán murmured, the habit of pet names never fading, even during the awkward mornings of the Post Divorce-Conversation—as he dubbed it. “I told you, I’ll be meeting with you tomorrow, she couldn’t schedule an appointment earlier than—”

And he was turned around.

A familiar shoe on the footrest of the barstool he sat on had turned him around, but Seán avoided this person’s eyes, solely focused on his glass—that was still not empty yet—and the sounds of slow, soft, steady breathing.

But when he looked up, he almost regretted it. Especially when the tiniest bit of saliva shot into his throat, and Seán had to hack it out in a very unappealing way, his hand slapping his chest, coughing, tears welling up into the corners of his eyes.

Once he finally felt his throat stop burning, he looked up again, catching the warm brown eyes that studied him carefully, eyes pulled into a concerned frown. Seán vaguely recognized his lips moving, he was speaking, what was he saying? He wasn’t paying attention.

“I—I’m sorry, what were you saying?” Seán said shyly, grinning in spite of himself. He sat up a little straighter and his eyes followed Mark and the way his skin rolled smoothly over the muscles of his biceps as he sat down in the stool next to him and leaned a part of his weight on the bar with an arm.

“That I didn’t expect to see you here,” Mark grinned back at him, that signature smoulder, with one eyebrow raised. “And that I didn’t peg you for a club-goer.”

Seán snorted, Mark a welcome change to his plans for the night. “Neither did I peg you for one.”

Mark smiled again, a little softer and compassionate this time. Then he threw his arm up to point his thumb over his shoulder, towards the direction of the dance floor. “Tyler and Ethan dragged me here. They claimed that I—” he lifted his fingers to air-quote, “‘never go out’. Do you believe that? I go out plenty.”

Seán smiled wistfully, not unkindly, but more in a polite way, with his lips tight. He started rubbing the side of his glass with two fingers, marveling at the way the chiseled glass felt smooth on calloused fingertips. “Yeah, that’s—that’s pretty unbelievable, yeah.” He tilted his head and chuckled roughly.

It was quiet for some time, before Mark piped up again after ordering some sort of mocktail. “So, what brings you here? And who did you think I was?”

Seán visibly tensed up, and he saw a flash of guilt cross Mark’s face. “I’m just… lonely, I guess. My husband moved out some weeks ago, and it’s been eerily quiet.”

Mark raised an eyebrow, tilting his head, “I—I’m sorry? Your husband? When did you get married?”

“You—You didn’t know? The blonde one, remember? With the Boston accent?” Mark seemed to remember by the way his eyes lit up and he nodded. “Yeah, we decided to get a divorce.”

“I didn’t realize you were married,” Mark smiled with tight lips. “I thought he was your boyfriend when you introduced him to us as your ‘partner’. But when? And why?”

Seán tried to remember the details, but utterly failed because he was drunk during most of them. “Last summer, we realized it just wasn’t working out, with my messed up schedule and his normal one.”

Mark raised his arm to gently pat his shoulder. “I’m so sorry man,” he retreated his arm back to his own lap, “and now? What’s going to happen now?”

“I don’t know the details, honestly,” Seán closed his eyes and forced out a rough chuckle, “but—erm—I might need to apply for a green card soon.”

Mark gave a smirk, “You could always marry me.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Seán almost instinctively agreed to the proposition but the absurdity of the whole scene finally got to him, and he started chuckling. Which eventually led to grinning, and laughing. Not as hard as he’d laugh on camera—and even then he had to force himself—nor as gleefully as he’d laugh a year ago. But he laughed.

Not much later it stopped, but in the meantime Mark had gotten his Nojito and was sipping on the straw, watching Seán tentatively. He raised an eyebrow as if to ask ‘ _are you okay?_ ’ and Seán just grinned back.

“Thank you, I needed that.”

Mark seemed amused and offended at the same time, so he swallowed his sip, put the glass down carefully and turned back to Seán. “I wasn’t kidding, you know. If marrying you is what it takes for you to stay, I’ll gladly be your spouse. I’ll even propose, with a ring and all.”

Seán rolled his eyes, “No, you seriously don’t have to do that. I’ll talk it over with my attorney tomorrow, I reckon that she’s got all of the answers to all of my problems.”

Mark seemed to be thinking, fixing at the coffee stain on one of Seán’s graphic tees, before licking his lips. He seemed hesitant, like he didn’t actually believe he was considering going through with his plan. “I believe I have one answer to one of your problems.”

And then it was Seán’s turn to raise an eyebrow, “You seem awfully confident. Are you sure you have an answer? I’d hate to be disappointed.”

Mark swiftly took another sip of his drink before standing up from the barstool and flashing him that signature smile. “I’m pretty sure.” He grabbed Seán’s hand—quickly, so he wouldn’t get cold feet. “And I’m pretty sure you won’t be disappointed. Maybe embarrassed.”

Seán caught on, a little, and he let himself be pulled from his own barstool, shooting Daniel a quick ‘thank you’ to which Daniel responded with a wink.

Both boys had a silly smile on their face, even after they let go of each other’s hand. They were in the awkward space between the dance floor and the bar, and Mark gently inched them closer to the sweaty crowd minute by minute.

But that was the least of Seán’s worries.

His worry, right then and there, in that moment, just the two of them, that he still didn’t really know what he was doing. Was he seriously going to dance with Mark? Because Mark had already started, a small hip twisty thingy that Seán couldn’t even begin to describe.

But when he glanced to his left, he was met with a couple making out, and more of them, and they were grinding and doing some sort of belly dancing and Seán looked away quickly, a vermillion color washing over his face. Instead, he focused on the concentration on Mark’s face—his tongue peeking out a bit, his eyes staring down a discarded red Solo Cup (why where those here? This wasn’t a frat party) spilling unidentifiable liquid on the ground—as he did a half-assed attempt at the floss dance, and Seán had to stop himself from physically face-palming.

And now the couple next to them was staring (really? Hypocrites) and shuffling away from them—and they bumped into other people, who started staring too, and eventually everyone within a 2 meter radius around them was staring, and Seán did the only thing he could think of.

He started dancing too.

Well, when I say dancing, I mean jumping. And a lot of inhumane arm flails, and Mark joined in, and they both started grinning. The people around them started to mind their own business again, but the boys barely paid them any mind.

Because after a minute of jumping around and pulling up his legs to form some sort of pre-training warming up, he started getting hotter, and Mark did too, but Mark was able to sweat the way Seán didn’t, but both their faces were probably red by now.

They started to calm down, and they started laughing, to the point where Seán was doubled over and grabbed Mark’s hand (to steady himself, he told himself) and had tears in his eyes.

“Oh, God, thank you so much for this,” he grinned wetly, “I’ve come here for the past few weeks but it never occurred to me to actually _dance_ , y’know? Or anything that resembled dancing. Like this.”

Mark grinned too, and in a moment of pure impulse pulled on Seán’s hand only to feel him crash into his own chest, Seán’s other hand above one of his pecs, fingertips ghosting just below his collarbone. He started pulling away but Mark quickly let go of his hand to put his in the small of Seán’s back, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin shirt.

With a low voice, mumbled into the side of Seán’s head, just above his hair, Mark said something along the lines of “You’re welcome” but Seán honestly wasn’t paying much attention. But rather, on the way Mark’s fingers danced on his back, and the other on his side, too affectionate to be considered anything close to tickling.

He ran his tongue along his lips, in an attempt to wet the dried skin, but gave up on forming words. He just rested the side of head on Mark’s shoulder, pressing a lingering, fluttering kiss to the base of Mark’s neck.

And they moved like that; swaying side to side, with Seán’s head on Mark’s shoulder and Mark’s hands on his body, so disgustingly affectionate and too intimate for the setting. In hindsight, Seán probably would’ve laughed at the scene (especially if he wasn’t the one in it), with the stark contrast of an almost-waltz in the midst of a rowdy, horny, drunken sea of club-goers.

In the back of his mind he knew they got some strange looks, and maybe would even end up on YouTube (he could already see the title; ‘same-sex interracial couple waltzing on club dance floor’ or something less porny), but at that moment, he couldn’t find it in him to care.

Somewhere along the way Seán accidentally stepped on Mark’s toes, and he lifted his head jerkily, hastily, and muttered a quick “I’m so sorry, did I hurt you?” but the words died halfway in his throat when he met Mark’s eyes, looking off at a spot right next to Seán’s head, with his eyes widened in shock.

Mark’s gaze flitted over to Seán’s eyes, and the emotion Seán found in them made him turn his head too. His eyes did their best to adjust to the dark bar, the neon lights flashing from the ceiling didn’t help his case, and he had to squint to even see.

But then he saw it, a heap of blonde hair that framed his traditionally handsome face, and when his eyes adjusted he recognized the snug-fitting black tee he’d always wear when they’d go out, and then the black ripped jeans, and then those sneakers with the strip of LED-lights on the soles he’d bought for them both.

Seán’s eyes darted up, and he took in the way his ex-husband was clutching his beer bottle tightly, up to the point where his knuckles were devoid of color. He followed the line up his arm, to his shoulder, and up to the expression that he was wearing. It was some mix of hopelessness, of anger, of betrayal, and Seán couldn’t help but feel his heart sink.

He went to push at Mark’s chest, his eyebrows furrowing when Mark’s hands wouldn’t budge and in fact just gripped him tighter, pulling Seán towards his own chest. He turned his head back to Mark apprehensively, afraid that if he’d looked back over his shoulder he’d lose sight of his ex-husband, and breathed out a frail “Mark, please let go.”

“No,” was what Mark said, and Seán could feel more than see how Mark stared daggers at the man, who seemingly stood frozen in his spot, just watching the scene unfold with eyes only on the brown hair of the man, who now wanted more than anything to just _disappear_.

“N-No?” Seán squeaked. “But I need to talk to him, we might be able to work things out, we might not need a divorce, please let go of me, I won’t do anything stu—”.

Halfway through the sentence he found himself turning his head back to look at his ex-husband, but Mark slowly, almost sluggishly, hooked his finger under Seán’s chin and redirected his head back to him.

In a low whisper, he said, “Don’t you dare look back, just keep your eyes on me.”

And in that moment Seán was entranced. Maybe the alcohol was finally starting to kick in, or maybe he was living on some club-induced high (or maybe he really was high, he wouldn’t write it off just yet, when he noticed a group of people sharing a joint not more than three meters away) but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Mark’s and his senses kicked into overdrive.

With a sudden change of heart, charged with impulse and maybe even a trance, Seán pushed himself up onto his toes, squeezed his eyes together tightly and lingered half an inch from Mark’s face.

Mark was the one who eventually closed the distance between them, and Seán reveled in the way of feeling another pair of lips on his and feel that _spark_ again, a spark he and his husband had lost so many months ago, that they had tried to hold on to for so long.

And Seán knew they’d be okay.


End file.
